


No Cure for Crying

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Ew, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock feels terrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Cure for Crying

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by the song "Firewood" by Regina Spektor, as well as by the way I feel at the moment and by the belief everyone needs a Doctor Watson this time of year.
> 
> (This is probably the worst thing I've written in years so sorry if you're looking for partly comprehensible mpreg fluff.)

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock blinks and pulls his gaze away from the window, staring silently at John for a moment before nodding and forcing a small wobbly smile, “’Course.”

The army doctor frowns, taking in Sherlock’s hunched shoulders and slightly distant gaze. He glances out at the miserable London street below them and shrugs, shivering slightly at the thought of having to step outside again in the bitter cold. “Alright,” he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and nods, “Well I’m going out, but shouldn’t be late. Try and eat something, yeah?”

Sherlock only hums vacantly and resumes his staring out of the window.

***

When John returns Sherlock had relocated to the sofa, his legs spread up against the wall and his head dangling off the edge where a normal man might hang his feet.  At the sound of the door clicking shut he quietly sighs to himself, but John’s had a rough night and his head is sore. He ignores his flatmate in favour of a pint of too-cold water and two paracetamol that almost go down the wrong way.

He barely notices the quiet shuffling from the next room and when he finally makes it out to the lounge again he simply assumes Sherlock has finally decided to go to bed. He could do with the sleep; John heard him bustling around the flat until the early hours of the morning.

He makes his own way upstairs and shuts himself into his bare but still some-what cozy room. He doesn't know what's happening downstairs, he'd blind to it. But that's no surprise, is it?

***

Sherlock is sat on his bed. He stares at the dark walls and feels something immeasurably… immeasurable bubbling inside of him. His throat constricts and his eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry. Because crying is something children do when they don’t get their way, or teenage girls do when they see a soppy film, or loved ones when they’re left alone. And he is none of those things.

His hands unconsciously fiddle and he doesn’t even realise he’s been toying with the loose thread at the end of his shirt sleeve until his finger gets caught and it pulls a little too tightly. He releases it with a quiet huff and his head falls into his hands. Outside of his room he hears footsteps, and for a brief (silly) moment he wonders if John’s going to walk in. If John’s going to see him in this state, and ask how he is, and while the thought of attempting to explain this never ending painfully broken feeling to John sounds impossible it also sounds incredibly and wonderfully relieving.

John pauses outside of his door for a beat, and then murmurs something to himself before turning and walking away. There are several heavy steps as he makes his tired way up the stairs, and then a muffled bang as he closes his bedroom door. He’s not working tomorrow. He’s gone until at least nine o’clock.

Sherlock’s alone again.

He most definitely doesn’t cry.

***

When Sherlock wakes up the next day he certainly doesn’t feel any better; but he’s not sure he’s any worse, so that’s something. He glances down at himself and realises in disgust he’s been wearing the same clothes he wore to the crime scene yesterday in bed all night. Quickly, as if afraid someone might walk in and judge him, he switches to a loose tee-shirt and stripy pyjama bottoms before draping his dressing-gown loosely over his shoulders.

Casual. Perfect.

He potters out to the living room, stopping for a moment to listen to the quiet sounds of life that filter out from the kitchen and he silently steels himself before striding straight on in. “John,” he greets, hoping his voice gives away nothing other than his current drowsy state, “Morning.”

John looks up from his mug of tea and two slices of mildly burnt toast (smothered in enough jam to make Sherlock certain he won’t be eating at all today). His face twists a little and he squints his eyes in his own personal ‘doctor’ way. “You look like shit.” He concludes after a moment, “When’s the last time you slept?”

Sherlock sighs (he seems to be doing a lot of that lately) and pours himself a glass of water, taking a small sip and scowling at the gunky feeling along the top of his tongue. “About five minutes ago.”

“Have you eaten?”

The glass in Sherlock’s hands hits the table with a little more force that intended and he raises his hands, “Not an ounce in my life, no. It’s a miracle I’m still alive, really.” He stalks over to the door and growls, “Or not, I suppose. Depending how you look at it.”

His bedroom door slams behind him and within five minutes he’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes and running out of the front door.

***

Later, much later, Sherlock enters a dark 221B as quietly as he can. He hangs his coat up on the hook with much more caution than really necessary and turn to sneak to his bedroom like a teenager missing curfew. The lights in the lounge flick on and, instead of an angry looking father, he’s greeted by the sight of a slightly confused (and almost on the edge of angry) John.

“Where have you been?”

The detective’s lip quirks up at the fatherly inquiry, “Out.” He replies with a small chuckle, aware John is not in on his joke.

“I’m worried about you. You just don't seem quite like yourself.”

Sherlock frowns, the phrasing not seeming right for that of his friend. He blinks, and the room is dark again. There is no John to be seen.

He is alone.

Again.

***

It goes on for days. The emptiness. Sherlock wakes up each morning sure that he’ll come around again soon, but he doesn’t He cries more than he’d care to admit and his throat aches as frequently as his empty stomach.

It’s been going on for over a week by the time John finally confronts him the way he’d wished for nights ago. It’s too late now, he thinks. He couldn’t explain it if he tried.

“What’s up?” John asks, and it isn’t quite as disconnected as ‘are you okay’ but it’s not as personal as ‘what’s wrong?’ and Sherlock just shrugs, smiling the way he smiles when he needs to get something from someone that hasn’t met him before.

“Nothing,” he intones mildly, and John huffs a heavy breath as if that was the answer he’d been expecting.

“Well, I’m going out,” John says, just as he had over a week ago now, and Sherlock nods. John says something further but the detective doesn’t notice until he feels a light hand on his shoulder, “Oi, don’t zone out on me like that. Are you coming or not?”

Sherlock frowns, “Coming where?”

John groans and pulls the weak detective to his feet with one hard tug, “Get dressed you idiot, I’m starving.”

***

The restaurant is nearly empty when they get there, but it’s not as if Angelo’s has ever been the most popular establishment in London. John orders mushroom linguini and Sherlock penne arrabiata, which he proceeds to pick at half-heartedly. The normally conformable silences interchanged with entertaining conversation are stilted and lacking, and it takes John only ten minutes to drop his fork and catch Sherlock’s attention with a loud and delibrate sigh.

“Sherlock, what’s  _wrong_?”

And John doesn’t sound exasperated when he speaks, nor does he sound like he’s simply asking to be polite. There’s a note of something indescribable in the way he asks and it makes Sherlock’s already bitter and sore heart squeeze, causing yet more tears to prick at his eyes and unsaid words to scream and screech around inside of his head. He looks down and then closes his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.” The voice of a broken man claims, “It’s nothing.”

“Sherlock?”

The man stands up and shakes his head, “I, sorry, John. I think I should,” A tear escapes, rolling down his cheek and he angrily swipes it away, “I should go. I’m sorry. I’ll… see you back at the flat. I’m sorry.”

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice is lost in the sound of the door closing and Sherlock’s quick footsteps escaping the scene.

***

When John gets back Sherlock is in his room. The lights are off. He makes himself a cup of tea before pulling his shoulders back and marching to the bedroom door.

His hand hovers over the wood as he debates knocking for a few seconds, and then it falls to the door knob as he turns it quickly and steps in before he can change his mind. The sight that greets him is… unexpected.  Sherlock is lying on his bed, under the covers with just his head sticking out. His entire body is hunched up like a child, as if protecting himself from the monster under the bed, and small whimpering sounds are being emitted from the head of the bed. John takes a step towards him, the man’s name on his lips, before stopping and staring dumbfounded.

The whimpering dies down a little, before falling completely silent. Sherlock pulls in a ragged breath and covers as much of his face as he can before speaking quietly, as if afraid to break the quiet. “John?”

John licks his lips, not allowing his line of sight to shift one bit, and clears his throat, “What’s wrong, Sherlock?” he asks, for the second time that evening.

The following pause is long, broken only by the heavy breathing of two men both petrified of miss-stepping. After what seems to be millennia Sherlock chokes out an awful sob and sniffs loudly, “ _I don’t know_.” He admits, and John’s heart plummets. He finally takes the step forward and, without really thinking, lies down on the covers next to Sherlock. Hesitantly, he reaches an arm out to wrap around his friend and he pulls the man close – as if he’s a precious Christmas gift John wishes to keep forever. Sherlock makes no noise of complaint, his constant ragged breathing actually seeming to calm for a moment, and so John goes for broke and tucks his knees up behind Sherlock, resting his head just behind the man’s neck.

“That’s alright.”

Sherlock pulls in a shaky breath, “It is?”

“Of course,” John smiles, pressing a light kiss to the man’s neck, “We all get sad sometimes, love. It’s okay not to always know why.”

Sherlock sighs, allowing his shoulders to relax in a way they haven’t all week. His head sinks into the pillow and he nods, “Alright then.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Sherlock thinks about it, before shaking his head slightly. John pauses, before pushing off his shoes with his toes and snuggling down closer to the younger man, “Then I’ll stay.” He says.

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Reviews and kudos are always great.


End file.
